


A Broken Man

by jawnlovessherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Grieving, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnlovessherlock/pseuds/jawnlovessherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles to come to terms with Sherlock's death after the Reichenbach fall. The lines between reality and imagination blur and John begins to fall apart, believing Sherlock to still be alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Broken Man

It's been a year since the fall and yet it still haunts John. Tonight he dreams of the night they held hands, fingers entwined as they ran through the busy streets of London, two hearts racing as one. But his longings are no longer confined to his dreams. Sometimes he thinks he sees Sherlock at work, on walks, almost everywhere, but when he looks there is no one there. The past few months have gotten worse, he looks forward to imagining that Sherlock is still alive. That he wasn’t dead. Oh God did he wish that Sherlock wasn’t dead. His therapist says that these kinds of symptoms are normal but he stopped going to their sessions a long time ago.

Today John was going out for coffee with Lestrade. Lestrade's excuse was that he wanted to catch up with him, but John knew it was probably Mycroft's way of getting someone to check on him. Sherlock would have wanted it. Lestrade talked on and on about how different it’s been at Scotland Yard since they lost Sherlock but John tunes him out. _Boring!_ The memory of the deep, husky voice echoes in his head and then the swish of a dark blue coat. But that's not a memory.

"John, are you even listening to me?" Lestrade asked.

"Did you just see it? His coat. I saw him, I saw Sherlock!"

Lestrade sighed, "John, he’s not here anymore, you're just imagining things. Sit back down."

John didn't realize he had stood up. "I know I saw him," he whispered, his energy draining from him. Maybe they were right, he wanted to see Sherlock so bad that he imagined him watching over him like a guardian angel.

Lestrade droned on and on for the rest of their meeting and before leaving gave John a hug, a rather awkward one, in an attempt at consolation. He didn’t need consolation though; he just wanted everyone to stop acting like he was crazy. People stared at him wherever he went. He knew what the strangers who goggled at him in the street thought; _He was that freak’s best friend. What a shame, he must be going through so much_. He loathed those people.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Work. Cab. Food. Home. Sleep. The image of Sherlock ingrained in his mind. Something was different; this wasn't a hallucination. It had really been him. He hadn’t dared to allow himself to hope in a long time, but now he couldn’t stop it from spreading. He didn’t know how he knew it but he did. _Sherlock is alive_.

 ** _Sherlock is alive._**  

* * *

 

That night, John hurriedly limped back up the stairs to his flat. So much had changed in the past year. His limp had suddenly returned after the funeral; as he walked back from the gravesite he had felt his leg buckle, barely managing to brace his fall. So many people were worried; that was the worst part of it all. The pity. And on top of it all he couldn’t go back to 221b, he just couldn’t. He promised Mrs. Hudson he would visit, but it was just too painful. Too much of Sherlock had been left behind, and too many regrets. Lestrade had helped him move the little belongings he had into his new flat. It was small and boring: a reflection of what his life had become. Wake up, shower, go to work, come home, go to bed, repeat. Some days he even forgot to eat. But now he had something to live for again, _the thrill of the chase_. Except now he would be the one doing the investigating. So many unanswered questions yearning to be solved, which one should he choose first? One question troubled John the most. If Sherlock were alive why hasn’t he spoke to him?

Paranoia seemed to seep even deeper into John that night as he contemplated it. He jumped at the slightest noise and constantly got up to jot ideas down on a note pad.

By morning his flat had turned into a crime scene and only did the shrill sound of his work alarm going off jar him back into reality. He left the flat quickly to get to work and began to search for a cab when something caught his eye.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” John shoved his way through the crowd trying to reach Sherlock before he could lose him.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Oh if only you knew Sherlock._

John reached out to touch Sherlock when he suddenly turned around.

“John come on he’s getting away!” Sherlock yelled impatiently and ran down an alley.  
“Sherlock wait-“ John followed him afraid to let him out of his sight.

The alley had many twists and turns and without Sherlock, John would be lost.

“John…” Sherlock turned around eyes combing over John like a client, “Bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, you’re dirty- probably haven’t done the laundry in days. Your hair isn’t even brushed which means you haven’t had a date in weeks more likely months. Maybe not even since the fall,” he snapped his fingers in front of his face and John jumped, “Startled easy so anxious, most likely paranoid too, and then there’s the hallucination problem.”

“Sherlock what are you-“

“Oh John, do you really think this was real? You thought it all up in your head. You see, but do not observe look around you, really look. I’m not here.”

And quite suddenly John is alone, stranded in an alley. His hands begin to shake and his breath comes fast. He collapses against the nearest wall and the grime sticks to his jacket as he rocks back and forth, placing his face in his hands, unable to control his sobbing.

John Watson is a doctor. He makes people better for a living and he used to be good at it. But now he can’t even put himself back together. Nobody can.

* * *

 

“Mycroft I can’t bear to watch him anymore.”

“Then don’t watch him little brother.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I told you not to get involved and you replied with ‘I’m not involved’ see where we end up?” Mycroft sighed, “You can’t show yourself to him Sherlock he already thinks you’re alive even though he’s never actually seen you.

“I just want to fix this, I want to fix him. It’s my fault,” Sherlock swallowed back the lump growing in his throat.

“You didn’t have a choice Sherlock. Now, I must be off, I have other important matters to attend to but please don’t do anything rash.”

“I won’t.” It took every ounce of willpower that Sherlock Holmes had to not go running out into the alley and hold John Watson for the rest of eternity. To put him back together piece by piece until he was whole again.


End file.
